


lost, adj.:

by jmtgala



Series: spirk, n. [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Dissociation, Jim-centric, M/M, Nightmares, sleeping disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 20:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10952025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmtgala/pseuds/jmtgala
Summary: Stars can be anything you need them to be. Sometimes they are what they want to be for you; void, an encompassing darkness, a representation of the things you are running from. Sometimes they are your own worst nightmares manifested in the celestial beings you hold so close.





	lost, adj.:

The stars are not romantic, they are simply stars. They are beautiful and there is much to learn in their existence, but the same can be said of everything the universe has made of itself. They can be home, solace to ever wandering souls, a guide for the lost if they know what they are looking for. Nobody ever really knows what they’re looking for.

Jim, born in the stars and destined to live among them, finds that stars are stars, but they can be anything you need them to be. Sometimes they are what they want to be for you; void, an encompassing darkness, a representation of the things you are running from. Sometimes they are your own worst nightmares manifested in the celestial beings you hold so close.

 

The ship is quiet, at ease. There has not been a crisis for one hundred ninety-two Standard days.

Much can be said about Jim’s constant need for action—not necessarily dangerous, though that is what people normally assume—but he enjoys the calm they have found themselves in. Though, he feels much the same as he did when he nearly stepped down as captain of the ship, a nagging in his chest like static electricity. Bones insists it’s a medical condition in an attempt to drag him into medbay for tests, Uhura says it’s Jim overthinking, and Scotty tells him it’s his body asking for alcohol. Sulu says he feels it too but has not figured out what it is. Spock explains it to him as a natural occurrence, something everyone must come to terms with.

“It is a form of pain,” Spock tells him, “It is a part of life.”

 

The lights will not stop flickering. Jim blinks, blearily, newly arisen from sleep.

“Lights at fifty percent.”

The lights are still flickering. Jim looks up, squinting at the intermittent brightness, and slowly realises they’re coming from fluorescent tubes. Fluorescent lights have not been used on Earth for more than two centuries, and one would certainly never find them on a Federation Starship.

Jim looks around him, at the dirty walls covered with graffiti that do not resemble art as much as frantic, unintelligible writing. Sitting up, Jim steadies himself with his hand planted at his side.

Suddenly there is a door in his line of sight, and a silhouette of a man who is quickly, quickly coming nearer. Jim can’t move. He is vaguely aware of the existence of his body, but his mind seems to work outside of it, as if he were commanding another person to move. The man, who appears to be a solid shadow, is hovering over Jim, almost passing through his body.

The man moves with sudden shifts, undiscernible; his hand one second at his side and the other second reaching for Jim’s neck.

Jim’s chest feels like it has been hallowed out.

 

There’s a hand on Jim’s chest when he wakes, rubbing circles at the middle and warm. Jim flinches away, and the hand retracts itself from Jim’s body.

“Jim, open your eyes.”

With heavy eyelids, Jim struggles to become fully awake. He blinks, and slowly sees a blurry figure turn into Spock. He looks at Spock questioningly, his hand moving to put pressure on his chest where Spock’s hand had just been.

Spock follows Jim’s hand with his eyes and then looks back at Jim. “You were having a nightmare,” he explains.

“Was I screaming?” Jim sits up, leaning his back against the wall of the ship.

“No.” Spock pauses, seemingly contemplating his continuation. “You were… distressed, and it awoke me.”

“My… distress—woke you up?” Jim questions, watching as Spock stares at him in that particular way Jim has still not fully understood: there is a slight discomfort in his face mixed with what Jim reads as hopelessness.

“It is not important,” Spock dismisses, straightening his posture. “Are you unwell?”

“It was just a dream,” Jim mutters, mostly to himself. “It’s okay, Spock. You can go back to your quarters.”

Spock nods, then stands up. Jim only realises now that they’re both in states of undress— him much more than Spock. “Sleep well,” Spock says, looking at Jim for a little longer before turning his back and leaving the room.

Jim knows he can’t sleep, though, and doesn’t try.

 

His shift the next day is uneventful. When they’re in between planets, in a safe environment, there is not much need for a captain. Sulu is a good helmsman and takes care of the ship with their new navigator, Bulan, who brings the same easy camaraderie as Chekov did when he first came on the Enterprise years ago. Bulan is young, with overwhelming purpose and a bright hope emanating from within them. Jim thinks they’ll achieve great things for the universe one day, and wonders idly where Pike ever saw that same light in him.

He sits in his command chair, watching the stars outside them on the screen, both his hands limp on his lap. Humankind used to believe there was nothingness here. Space was a vacuum instead of a road between worlds, full of opportunity. It still seems that, sometimes; the way roads still do. They’re liminal spaces, not here nor there unless you see every part of the universe as a stop, unique down to every subatomic particle it’s comprised of. Even then, it’s easy to get lost in the pattern of stars.

“Captain.”

Jim stirs. He turns his chair to see Spock standing in front of him, hands clasped behind his back. “What is it, Mister Spock?”

“Your shift is over, sir,” he replies.

Jim furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

“Your shift is over, Captain,” Spock repeats. At Jim’s silence, he adds, “Perhaps you should rest.”

Jim smiles, small, though he is still confused. “Perhaps.” He stands and moves away from the chair. “Take care of her.”

Spock nods, and with that Jim leaves the bridge.

 

He’s back in Iowa, in his Uncle’s house; a kid with long, floppy hair again. It’s dark, much darker than the place had ever been, but the walls are a yellow that bleeds through the edges. Sam is gone and his mother is not here. Frank doesn’t seem to be either. The house is empty, soulless, and by all accounts it looks like it’s in perfect condition but he feels as if it will cave in any second. He speeds through the first floor, looking if anyone’s home. When he moves back to the stairs, he hesitates. It doesn’t feel right, like the second floor is heavier than the first, like by going there he will trap himself somehow. He climbs anyway, slowly, keeping one hand pressed on the wall.

“Jimmy?” It’s Frank. Jim doesn’t know where his voice is coming from. He stops on the stairs. “Jim boy! Come on, now. What the fuck are you doing down there?”

Jim breathes, taking long inhales. He turns, quietly, planning to head back downstairs. When he looks down, the stairs lead to a pit of darkness. Void— all void and no stars.

“Jimmy!” Frank’s voice gets louder, screaming now. Jim doesn’t want to turn back, afraid of what he’ll see on Frank’s face, in Frank’s hands. He steps down and trips, tumbling into the hole.

Falling, falling, and then—

 

Spock is by his bed. He doesn’t seem to know what to do, awkwardly sitting on the ground and visibly tired. “Asha— hm.” Spock purses his lips, blinking at Jim’s bed. Jim is pretty sure when Spock looks back at him, he’s actually staring in between Jim’s eyes instead. “How long have you been having nightmares?”

Jim chuckles. “Since I was born, dude.” Jim turns on his side to face Spock, propping his head on his folded arm. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“You are tormented by this.”

“It’s really not that bad, Spock.” Jim sits up, crossing his legs in the same position as Spock is in on the floor. Spock continues to stare, displeased by Jim’s reply. “Look, it’s— I’m fine. Maybe not fine by other people’s definition, but by my definition I’m fine.”

“You are lying,” Spock says matter-of-factly. “It is not hard to decipher your mannerisms, Jim.”

“You’re telling me you know my _tell_? I don’t have a— that’s not the point!” Jim sighs. “Spock, why are you here? I told you and Bones to only use my lock code in case of emergencies.”

“You were in distress.”

“As you keep telling me.” Jim looks down, realising he’s been rubbing his fingernails together. He balls his hand tightly into a fist. “Look, okay, yes. My nightmares are getting worse, but this happens once in a while. They go away. You don’t need to worry.”

Spock opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it. He takes a deep breath. “I see.”

Jim is quiet, for a while. He watches Spock, who refuses to look at him. Spock only sits there, looking down at his feet, a quiet in between them that is not uncomfortable, but is filled with something unspoken. Jim shifts in his bed again, lying back down, now looking at the ceiling.

Spock still doesn’t leave, and for a moment Jim wonders if Spock had fallen asleep, but when he looks at Spock, he’s still just there, sitting.

“You have any plans of going back to your room or are you gonna cozy up with me?” Jim rolls to his side just in time to see Spock get flustered— emotions are much harder to keep in check when you’ve been woken from sleep.

Spock stands up. “I will go.” He walks to the door and stops. “Sleep well, Jim.”

Jim watches as the doors close.

He gets out of bed.

 

More often now he finds himself constantly antsy, which always, when permitted, leads him to the gym. He prefers sparring to anything else and will fight anyone available, no matter their skill level. He doesn’t set out to defeat them, sometimes even letting his mind go and leaving his body on autopilot, which usually results in a visit to medbay. He really just wants to get the static out of his skin.

He’s used to this—the idea of this. He knows its nature and its severity, but every time it comes back it’s still bad. There’s no erasing the discomfort it brings, the constant restlessness. When it resurfaces, it seems as if it’s worse by twofold.

But no amount of grappling and bodies on bodies ever help, as he’s long known. This dissonance exists in him, unable to ever leave.

 

He jumps out of a window.

When the glass breaks his skin and he falls, he is back inside the room he jumped out of. Time isn’t turning back, though the window in front of him is intact; the cuts on his skin sting and bleed.

He jumps out of a window.

 

When he falls off his bed, he lands on Spock. God knows why Spock was sleeping on his floor in the first place, but they’re both awoken by Jim’s landing. Jim rolls off Spock, curling into a ball before he sits.

“Spock, honest to God, _what the hell_.”

Spock is barely awake but has enough presence to raise an eyebrow at Jim. “I believe I should be the one saying that, Jim.”

Jim squints his eyes at Spock. “Okay, new rule: you either sleep on my bed or you don’t sleep at all.”

Spock frowns. “Jim, it would be inappropriate for me to sleep on your bed.”

Jim actually tilts his head, confused. “No, it’s not.” When Spock doesn’t reply, he insists, “I’m fine with it, Spock. Wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

Spock shakes his head and abruptly stands up. “I appreciate your… offer. Sleep well.”

He then gives a curt nod and leaves. Jim, with something akin to shock, stares at his door for a long time.

 

The ship’s walls are cold, its halls barren. Sometimes Jim thinks he hears whispers when there’s nobody there, like the ship is alive and talks. Scotty insists that she is, but that isn’t much of a comfort.

The halls are dark. Suddenly, Jim feels someone run past him, but sees nothing. He continues walking, choosing instead to ignore it, but then he feels it again. He sees a glimpse of it this time, a blurred shadow.

Finally, he stops. He looks around. There’s nobody there. He’s about to speak when the shadow materialises in front of him. Its face is blank, as a shadow’s is, but he imagines a smug smile on it.

The shadow reaches into Jim, passing easily through his body, and then—

A yeoman calls out, “Captain?”

 

“I am concerned for you, Jim.”

By reflex, Jim replies sarcastically, “Thanks.” He then looks up from his table to see Spock settling down on the seat opposite of Jim. “Is this about my nightmares? ‘Cause if it is, I’d rather we not talk about this in the dining hall.”

“It is unhealthy to—”

“Why do you know about them? You’re not touching me so being a touch telepath isn’t the reason.”

“That is not—”

“Important, I know.” Jim tangles his fingers together on the table, staring at Spock with an indignant look on his face. “We both have things we don’t want to talk about, Mister Spock.”

Spock frowns. “Jim, there are many things that Vulcan telepathy can do past basic touch. We are—” he looks down at Jim’s hands, still intertwined, a beat too long to be passing, “—connected to those closest to us.”

Jim’s hands loosen as he stares at Spock. “So you can see them.”

“No.” When Spock replies, he seems almost regretful. “I can only feel that you are distressed.”

Jim takes a deep breath, a moment of silence between them where Spock looks at him with both expectance and anxiety. Jim moves to leave. “Thanks, Spock,” is all he says.

 

He’s in jail again. There was a way too handsy man and then a bar fight, and so he was dragged into a building that looks like jail from the outside, but does not feel like it. Inside, it’s an abandoned building— just grey and musty and dark. They throw him against a wall, his shoulder hitting hard and dislocating, but he can’t feel it. Suddenly, he is running. There’s an endless flight of stairs that look the same, a loop— just a loop— a loop— a cycle—he’s stuck.

 

The static between him and Spock is unlike the one he feels under his skin. It’s the discomfort of vulnerability; that a person knows so much about you, the possibility that they would hold it above your head. Spock wouldn’t. Jim still fears that he would.

There are many things they leave unspoken, almost as a rule. The quiet often between them goes beyond just easy and into a form of comfort; they’re aware of the limitations their problems set for them.

When Spock comes into his room, he no longer sleeps. He wakes Jim up, a hand on either side of Jim’s shoulders, and they sit there. When Jim’s breath is no longer uneven, Spock leaves.

 

When he’s on his shift he feels like he’s floating. Like he’s watching a particularly realistic movie, feeling like he’s living it but knowing he’s just watching as he’s sitting on his seat. Like in anti-gravity training rooms, almost. When he looks around, nobody’s face is clear.

 

Jim starts counting his fingers constantly. Spock notices, and lets Jim count his, too. They are always ten. Jim is never convinced on the first try. He will recount them, fingertips brushing Spock’s until eventually, he falls asleep.

The nightmares do not leave, but they blur. They play out more like a black and white horror film now, more than anything.

 

That the nightmares lessen in intensity does not affect Jim’s day. It’s the same as it has been for a while: static and uneasiness, floating and vacant.

Spock, standing beside Jim’s command chair, is an ever present figure. Never pushing the boundaries that, truthfully, have not been set.

He is there, without fail, by Jim’s side.

“Spock,” Jim says one night when Spock is sitting with him on his bed, both their legs crossed and their knees touching, “what do you do about nightmares?”

Spock, with his hands intertwined on his stomach, searches Jim’s eyes for a few seconds before he replies, “Vulcans suggest further meditation to handle any mental discomfort. This alone, though, does not remove stress from human minds.”

Jim is silent, considering Spock’s answer.

Spock puts his hands, palms upwards, on Jim’s knees. “Would you like to try?”

Jim puts his hands on Spock’s, mirroring Spock’s movements as he loosely cups their palms against each other, the palms of their fingers on each other’s wrists.

Spock’s voice is calm, steady as he instructs Jim, “Close your eyes. Focus on your breathing, the steady movement of your chest as you inhale and exhale. Do not empty your mind… let your thoughts exist, but keep your focus on your breath.”

Jim feels static on his skin, but it is not sinister— it’s simply there. Even then, he is slowly floating.

“Feel my hands,” Spock tells him. “The touch of my skin on yours, focus on it. Be present, Jim….”

 

In the bridge, he walks around. It gives him something to focus on instead of the window of space large on the bridge’s screen. He still counts his fingers, tapping them on the side of his legs. There is not much to do about the static in his body, but movement keeps it at bay. Sometimes he catches Spock looking at him, endearing amusement clear on his face. When Jim grins at him, he only looks away.

 

Jim is in a twentieth century spacesuit, drifting in space. His chest is heavy with dread, his limbs feeling alien. His clothes feel claustrophobic, like they’re slowly shrinking.

Jim then realises he’s dreaming. Holding up his arms, he counts his fingers. There are eleven of them, the extra finger a twin thumb. He takes off his helmet and breathes. He moves his feet, trying to get to a standing position, and proceeds to walk on the nothingness of space.

 

When Jim looks out into space on the bridge, he sees a road. They are en route to Bitu’ahn to respond to a request for help on a government research project to improve agriculture on the planet. Looking at the stars, Jim sees a map telling him where to go.

Spock, reassuring, remains by his side.

 

 **lost, adj.:** It is easy, when you live in space, to disconnect. Sometimes, I can only see myself, or a distorted version of me. But you are a constant— an existence that not only can I not forget, but also one that I am interminably thankful for. You have always been there and assure me that you always will be.

**Author's Note:**

> what jim is going through is parasomnia with a mix of adhd (reference: my life)
> 
> prompt from this [tweet](https://twitter.com/loversdiction/status/665530143675404288)


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